


White Henley + Retrospection

by impossiblepluto



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Blood, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Jack Dalton (MacGyver 2016), Whump Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 15:28:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20117341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto
Summary: Jack rescues and cares for an injured Mac.Whump without plot





	White Henley + Retrospection

Warm blood runs from battered wrists, stretched too high above his head, down his arms and dropping with a splat onto bare feet and cold concrete. His shoulders ache. He wraps his hands around the chains and lifts his body onto tip toes. Granting his arms relief from the strain puts pressure on his feet and ankles. He can only maintain either position for a few minutes at a time.

Blood drips from his nose, landing against his chest. The sensation of warmth but rapidly cooling on his chilled skin. They took his shirt too.

Muscles tremble from the exertion of holding himself up, and the bracing cold of the cell.

His captors backlit by a single bulb hanging from a chain attached to the ceiling, swaying. Much like his own circumstance.

The force of an uppercut snaps his jaw shut, sends him reeling. He's lost his footing. His arms holding the burden on his weight. The chain clanks as it swings, creaking. His feet try to find purchase and slow the momentum of his body, scrambling and sliding against the sticky puddle on the floor.

Fresh blood spills faster from his wrists as the cuffs bite into his skin and he chokes off a cry of pain. Panting as he gets his feet under him again.

He pushes up on his toes, trying to catch his breath, feeling like he's suffocating. He just needs one good deep breath, he tries to push himself up higher.

It's a haze of pain. Blood in his eyes, blurring his vision. Buzzing in his ears from pain and the lack of oxygen.

A series of pops. Shouts. Gunshots. The compound's been breached.

Finally.

Jack is coming for him.

He opens his mouth to yell for Jack, let him know where he is, when that breath is punched from his lungs with a gasp. 

His captor leans in close, whispering in his ear. "They're still too late."

Mac's head falls against his chest, eyes locked on the knife buried in his abdomen. With a sickening squelch, it's pulled from his flesh. He stares at the blood, spilling from his body, soaking the waistband of his khakis. So close to being rescued, and the TAC team is going to be moments too late.

The door thuds against the wall so hard it almost ricochets closed again. Bright lights shine in his eyes, blinding him.

"Mac!" The voice comes close. Hands on his face, his neck, his chest.

"I got you, Mac," Jack calls. "Come on, Mac, I got you."

Mac's head lolls, it's too much effort.

"Hold still, hoss."

He's not going anywhere.

"Just relax, you're gonna hurt yourself."

He's already hurting.

"Open your eyes, bud."

With a gasp, Mac forces his eyes open. The dark cell is gone, replaced by warm, golden sunlight painting his living room and a soft blanket twisted around him, pinning his arms. He fights against the restraint, tossing and turning, desperate to get free. 

"Hey, hey, easy there, hoss" Jack pats his cheek, commanding his attention, trying to stop the kid from futile wrestling with the fabric wrapped around him, wasting his energy. "You were dreaming, you're safe." 

Despite Mac's struggling, Jack manages to loosen the blanket. With one arm freed Mac scrambles to sit up, jerking away from Jack's touch, running a shaky hand through his hair. His wrists ache. Thick bandages wrapped around them.

He purses his lips to slow his breathing and calm his racing heart. He closes his eyes again and rests his head back against the couch.

"You alright, hoss?"

Mac nods, shaking off the residual nightmare. Breathing deeply. He yanks the offending blanket free from where it still trapped most of his chest and his right arm.

He feels Jack tense.

"Mac," Jack's voice is soft in a way that's never a good sign. Comforting, but filled with tension and restraint. The nightmare too fresh and he's waiting for Mac to look at him before he makes his next move. Doesn't want to surprise Mac, send him spiraling again.

Slowly, Mac pries his lids open. He follows Jack's gaze.

Mac sighs, a stain across the front of his favorite white Henley. He hopes bleach will take care of it. Doesn't remember seeing the stain when he put the shirt on this morning. His fingers brush against the spot and it's still damp. He can't remember spilling anything. Hasn't even eaten anything recently. His appetite put off by pain medication and antibiotics. He stares, puzzled, at the dampness on his fingers. Ketchup? Cranberry juice?

"I think you popped your stitches, bud," Jack says, reaching for the hem of his shirt.

That makes a lot more sense. And explains the burning pain that's starting to demand his attention as the sleepy foggy lifts.

Jack pushes the fabric up, out of the way, revealing the row of neat black stitches across his abdomen, the last several on the end pulled loose during his sleeping struggle. Blood welling up lazily.

"Drain's still intact," Jack breathes a sigh of relief. "Let me grab some gauze. Where are your shoes?"

Mac frowns. "I don't need my shoes."

"You're going to walk into Medical in your socks?"

"I'm not going to Medical."

"You going to just argue everything I say?"

"I'm not--" Mac breaks off his sentence with a glower at Jack's gleeful look. "All they're going to do is clean them, some antibiotic ointment and maybe put the stitches back in. We can do that here."

"They can check you over, make sure you're not going to get infected after opening that wound up again."

"I'm not going to get infected."

"Back to arguing I see."

Mac rolls his eyes. "It's like five, maybe six stitches. You can put those in."

"They can give you lidocaine."

"Five stitches don't need lidocaine."

"What about infection?"

"Antibiotic ointment. And I'm on antibiotics," Mac argues.

Jack raises an eyebrow, unconvinced.

"I'll let you check my temperature. And I'll tell you if anything feels wrong."

"I'm gonna hold you to that," Jack says, pointing a finger in Mac's face. "And I'm calling Medical. If they say you have to come in, then I'm taking you in."

Mac shrugs. It's not an argument he's going to waste his breath on until he knows he needs to.

"You stay put until I get back."

"Not planning on going _anywhere_."

Jack narrows his eyes at Mac, then turns on his heel and stalks from the living room, down the hall to the bedrooms, knowing that the supplies sent from Medical are in Mac's bathroom. Right where Jack left them earlier. He's back in the room a few minutes, one phone call and one supply gathering mission later.

"You're off the hook for now," Jack grouses. "But you're going to let me take your temperature tonight, and check on the wound later. Doctor's orders."

"I already agreed to that."

"Yeah, well, I'm just reminding you," Jack says, setting the supplies down on the coffee table. "Let's get that shirt off. Arm's up," Jack grabs the hem of the Henley peeling it over Mac's head. Blond hair askew once it's off and Jack has to resist the urge to ruffle it back into place.

"Here, lay back down." Jack slides an arm around Mac's shoulders and helps him ease into a reclining position on the couch, grimacing each time Mac does. Once the kid is relaxed against the cushions, he asks, "you ready, bud?"

Mac wants to make a joke, ease the tension in Jack's eyes, distract himself from the pain that's about to come. Instead, he just nods.

As gently as he can, Jack disinfects the wound, hardening his heart against Mac's short gasps of pain. He places his hand against Mac's stomach, hoping to offer a little comfort from the pain. He feels the muscles tighten with each probe of the wound.

"Easy, hoss," Jack comforts as Mac squirms under his hands.

_His hands that are stained red._

_Jack stares in horror at his hands. _

_Mac's life spilling out over them. Holding pressure, screaming for help. Yelling at Mac to keep his eyes opened. Mac's lips are blue. Jack is too late. Too late to save him. Easing Mac down from the chains, he cries out as his arms are released and blood starts to return to the damaged extremities. Jack's hands slipping across Mac's blood slick skin, lowering him to the floor. Staring in horror at the gaping wound in Mac's stomach. Mac wincing in pain, writhing under his touch, as Jack's hands' press harder against the wound, trying to hold the blood inside. _

_"Where are the damn medics?" He shouts. "Come on, Mac. Don't do this buddy."_

_Mac whimpers. _

_"Jack," Mac whispers. His face too pale. _

_"Hold on, Mac. I've got you."_

"Hey, Jack, you okay?"

Jack shakes himself from the memory.

Mac waits until Jack's eyes break away from the wound and lock onto his. He reaches out, with his thumb he brushes away a tear that spilled down Jack's cheek.

Jack blinks, licking his lips. "Sorry, just got lost here for a minute."

"You okay?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that, hoss?" Jack gives a half-laugh, blinking hard again. Licking his lips again, trying to regain control of his emotions. "It just a little close that time." He clears his throat. "Alright, here we go, part two."

Mac cringes animatedly. "You sure you're ready for this?"

"I can take you in, if you don't trust me."

"I trust you," Mac states. No teasing. Complete faith in Jack. Confidence in Jack's abilities to care for him, to be what Mac needs.

And Jack finds himself blinking hard again. "Damn, son, you know how to get me, don'tcha." He heaves a sigh. He works quickly, threading the needle through Mac's skin, trying to forget that it's Mac he's stitching up. Mac that's trying to hold still for him, and not wriggle in discomfort.

One last stitch. A knot. A snip.

"All finished."

Mac breathes a sigh of relief, closes his eyes and sinks further into the cushions of the couch.

"You want a new shirt before you get all settle in there, hoss?"

Mac pauses, considering, then shakes his head. "Later."

Jack scoops the blanket from earlier up off the floor, draping it loosely over Mac. His hand rests against Mac's forehead, for comfort and to gauge his temperature before giving in to the urge to card his fingers through Mac's hair. "I'm still taking your temperature later."

"Of course."

Jack shakes his head with a fond smile and settles into an easy chair across the room. Close enough to help prevent the struggles from any future nightmares from popping any more stitches. Watching Mac's breathing deepen as he drifts off to sleep. Jack's thoughts start drifting again.

Lost in the fear that accompanies the mad rush from the cell. Carrying Mac from his prison, depositing him on a gurney. Turning him over to the medics that meet them in their rush into the night air. Jumping into the back of the ambulance. That feeling of helplessness, watching the medics take Mac's vital signs. Start an IV wide open to bolster his tanking blood pressure, replace lost fluid volume.

The dash through the hospital doors, that swing shut in his face as Mac is rushed back for surgery. Mac's hand sliding from his grasp. The wait as the surgeon cleans up the damage, suturing the drain in place to clear the infection left behind. And finally, after too many hours, and pacing and terrible hospital coffee, Mac is settled into a room. His face as pale as the white hospital gown when they finally let Jack into the room. And Jack waits, watching him sleep. Watching as Mac begins to murmur, distress evident, even in his mumbles. His brow furrowed, and mouth tight with pain. Fidgeting against starched sheets. 

Jack eases down the side rail of the bed, sitting next to Mac's hip. He cradles Mac's bandaged wrist, scooping up his hand and rubbing his thumb across bruised, swollen knuckles. Watching the fretful energy dissipate, and Mac slip into peaceful slumber_  
_

Across the living room, on the couch Mac begins murmuring, stirring Jack from his reverie. He stands, stretching the kinks out of his neck, and crossed the room to sit on the coffee table next to the couch. His hand brushes against Mac's forehead again. As before, instantly recognizing Jack's touch, Mac quiets, relaxing back into a restful sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> There was a gifset of Mac in white (white tux, white henley, hospital gown, white button down) and I said something in the tags about wanting to see that white button down bloodied. A lovely anonymous friend replied "I see your white button down stained with blood, and I raise white Henley stained with blood"  
Who can say no to a prompt like that?
> 
> As always thanks for reading!
> 
> P.S. if that was your prompt and you want to let me know, I'd love to gift this story to you! I know the bloody Henley only made a small appearance, but I hope that you still enjoyed it!


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